


Taking Down

by Kalimyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill.  Lestrade bends Mycroft over his knee and spanks him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Down

Mycroft comes home later than usual. He looks impeccable; his suit clean and pressed, his shoes shining, his hair neat and smooth. He always looks like that. The only sign that it's been a long day are the faint dark circles under his eyes, and the strained line that appears between his eyebrows.

He tugs his tie off and lays it neatly over a chair, followed by his jacket. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt and takes a deep breath.

"Hey," Greg says, glancing up at him with a quick smile. He's in his usual chair, the paper folded over one knee, working on the crossword. "There's leftover curry if you're hungry."

Mycroft shakes his head. He toes off his shoes without untying them first (a rare concession to tiredness) and leaves them by the door. He pads to Greg's side in his socks, then sinks to his knees, until he's settled comfortably on the thick rug. He leans over until his cheek rests against the warm side of Greg's thigh.

"Hi," Greg says, softly. He puts a hand in Mycroft's hair and smooths it back, rubbing at the tension along the back of his neck. "Rough day?"

Mycroft nods. His face rubs against Greg's trousers with the movement and he sighs, wriggling a little closer.

“Guess you can’t tell me about it, huh?”

“Sorry,” Mycroft says.

“Don’t be,” Greg replies easily. “Anything I can do?”

Mycroft shrugs and closes his eyes. It’s already helping, just being here at Greg’s feet, leaning against him, feeling the warm weight of Greg’s hand on the back of his neck. The tension runs out of his back and shoulders slowly, leaving behind a dull, tired ache, but it’s not quite enough. He needs a distraction, something to take him out of his head for a while.

“Bit of taking down, maybe?” Greg asks. His voice is casual but Mycroft can hear the thread of anticipation underneath.

“Perhaps a bit,” Mycroft says. His heart begins to beat a little faster.

“Right,” Greg says. He puts the newspaper aside and straightens in the seat, easing forward until he’s on the edge of the cushion and his legs are out in front of him. “Come on then.”

Mycroft kneels up, then lays carefully over Greg’s lap, wriggling a bit to get into place. The chair is low to the ground (one of the reasons Greg prefers this particular chair) and Mycroft is tall enough to rest his chest and belly across Greg’s thighs and still keep his knees on the rug. He wraps one arm behind Greg’s knees and lets the other hang at his side. Greg’s hand smoothes over his back, running in long, steady strokes along his spine, neck to sacrum and back up again. Mycroft rocks a little with each stroke. Already the pleasant drifting haze is covering his mind, making him feel buoyant and peaceful.

“Belt or hand?” Greg asks softly.

“Your hand,” Mycroft says. “I want to feel you.”

“Good.” Greg reaches a hand under and deftly undoes Mycroft’s belt, sliding it out of the loops with a long whispering sound. He drops it to the floor, then undoes Mycroft’s button and zip. Mycroft lies still, doesn’t attempt to help. This part isn’t his responsibility, none of it is. Greg is in charge now. Mycroft doesn’t even twitch when his trousers and pants slide down over his arse, exposing his skin to the room.

Greg’s hand is warm, the palm callused, a soft rasp against his skin. He strokes up the back of each of Mycroft’s thighs, over the curve of his arse, and then under his shirt, sliding up his back. Mycroft shivers as his skin tightens in reaction to the touch. He rubs his cheek against Greg’s thigh and sighs happily.

“No counting today, I think,” Greg says. “I’ll tell you when you’re done.”

Mycroft nods and curves his back, lifting his arse hopefully. Greg chuckles and gives him a warning tap. “When I’m ready, love. Don’t forget who’s in charge here.”

“As if I could,” Mycroft mutters, but he’s smiling.

“Hush. No more talking now, until we’re done.” Greg’s hand is still moving in rhythmic strokes, up and down, and Mycroft finds himself timing his breathing to match. He drifts, aware of the warm air on his bare skin, the steady tick of the clock, the gentle pull of friction with each stroke. He settles more fully against Greg, relaxing until he is sprawled over the other man’s lap in a lazy curve.

The first strike catches him completely by surprise. It always does; Greg is good at this. He always waits until Mycroft isn’t expecting it. The slap is firm, right where his thigh meets his arse, and it stings sharply. He draws in a rapid breath, then lets it out in a rush when a second strike lands on the other side, even harder.

The slaps come faster, Greg switching sides without warning, going from his thighs up to his tailbone and back, covering his arse in hot layers of sensation. Mycroft’s skin tingles and burns and he squirms, pushing forward and back. His cock is already half hard and it bumps distractingly against Greg’s thigh. He wriggles closer, arches his back, yelps when the next impact catches him just behind the balls.

Greg pauses for a moment and Mycroft tenses in anticipation. He holds his breath, and just when he thinks it’s over, the next stroke lands firmly on his arse cheek, a bright spot of feeling that he can’t categorize. He’s lost the line between pleasure and pain, and Greg shifts until Mycroft can rub properly against his thigh.

“Good,” Greg said, breathless. “Good, that’s good, god, look at your arse. I can see my hand prints all over it. Gorgeous.”

Mycroft moans and presses harder, one hand fisted in the material of Greg’s trousers, the other scrabbling for purchase on the floor. He just needs a little more, a few more pushes. Greg slaps his arse in a rapid flurry of strikes, left and right and left again, each stroke landing before the sting has a chance to fade from the last one.

“That’s it,” Greg says, and he’s hard now too, Mycroft can feel it against his belly. “That’s it, come on, I want to see it. Give it to me.”

Mycroft ruts up one, two, three more times, and Greg’s hand lands across tender skin and scrapes as it lifts, a little edge of fingernails, and that’s it, he’s gone, spurting against Greg’s thigh and letting out a long, low groan. Greg strokes him through it, trailing his fingertips over his hot, stinging arse, and Mycroft goes boneless against him and drifts away.

When he comes back to himself, he’s kneeling on the floor again, his trousers still undone but pulled back up. Greg sits in front of him, legs splayed open, one hand rubbing himself through his clothes. Mycroft lurches up and rests his cheek against Greg’s belly, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Anytime,” Greg says. “You’re beautiful like that.”

Mycroft ducks his head a little. No matter how many times Greg says it (and it’s really quite often) he can’t quite get used to hearing it. He finds a welcome distraction in the pressure of Greg against his chest, still hard in his trousers. “Let me thank you properly,” he says.

Greg grins broadly. “I think I’ll take you up on that.”

*


End file.
